A Rather Remarkable Homecoming (3 page)

“It seems to me,” Jeremy told our visitors calmly in his Barrister’s Voice, “that Penny’s Grandmother Beryl sold her house quite a long time ago . . . in the early 1990s, I believe. Were you the buyer?”

“Not exactly,” replied Harriet, unruffled by his slightly suspicious tone. She turned to me with a gentle air and said, “Penny, your grand-mum was a founding member of our Port St. Francis Legacy Society. She was very passionate about protecting our village, long before it became fashionable to do so.”

“Really?” I glanced up curiously, for, although I didn’t know my English grandmother well, she’d struck me as a very conventional woman, unlikely ever to have been a firebrand, especially compared to her brilliant and dramatic older sister, my Great-Aunt Penelope, who had outlived Grandmother for many years.

“Oh, yes,” continued Harriet. “Beryl was very forward-looking, and she could see what was happening in Cornwall . . . low wages and sky-high housing prices driving our young people away, because they can’t afford to stay.”

Harriet glanced a bit worriedly at her son, then went on. “So, toward the end of her life, when dear Beryl was forced to move back to London permanently to be near her doctors, she decided to sell her country house to the town of Port St. Francis at a very reasonable price, with the stipulation that they lease it to our Legacy Society for twenty years, giving us the first option to buy it if the town ever needed to sell.”

Harriet paused now to let this information sink in, and to sip more of her hot tea. “You see, back then, we all agreed that this was the best way to give our Legacy Society time to raise funds to buy the house,” she explained. “Beryl could easily have sold it outright to a private buyer, and I daresay for more money. But your lovely grandmother said she’d rather count on our group to do good things with the place for everyone in the community. I am proud to say that the house has been used as a woman’s shelter, a seniors’ and veterans’ center, a day-care nursery, and it was even where we launched the town’s organic farmers’ market.”

Colin interrupted now, taking a great big gulp of tea, which he drank “black”.

“And if it weren’t for Mum’s group, there’d be plenty of babies and old folks who wouldn’t be alive today, that’s the God’s truth of it,” he said, eyeing Jeremy more keenly than his mother had.

“For awhile, we really did your grand-mum proud,” Harriet said to me, her eyes shining. “To the locals, it was a place to go in good times and bad.”

I had been listening attentively, noticing that every time Harriet mentioned Grandmother Beryl, it was with the warm tone of someone who deeply missed a close friend, and who had, against all odds, kept the house as a shrine to their shared good intentions. I couldn’t help being touched by this.

Harriet said warningly now, “But I must tell you that there are plans afoot for your grandmother’s house that we do not like.”

“Don’t sugar-coat it, Mum. Tell ’em the place is about to be razed to the ground!” Colin broke in impatiently.

I gasped, and Jeremy looked up sharply in surprise.

“And furthermore,” Colin said darkly, “life in the entire village as we know it could be totally destroyed! Fact is, everybody in Port St. Francis thinks that you guys are the only ones who can stop it.”

“Who’s going to knock down my grandmother’s house?” I demanded indignantly.

“The town,” Colin blurted out. “They own it, and they want to sell it to somebody else for more money.”

Jeremy regained his composure first. “So, I take it that your lease on Beryl’s house is near its end now?” he asked. “And that your Legacy Society is not in a position to buy?”

“Right on both counts,” said Harriet promptly, “but I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

She turned to me. “You see, earlier on, we were able to help the town buy some of the property surrounding your grand-mum’s house, thanks to the kindly donations of our supporters, who stipulated that the town give our Legacy Society the same kind of lease on all the new property. Oh, we had some great plans for the house and the land!” she exclaimed, and I had to smile at her enthusiasm.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“Our dream was—is—to restore the house to its former glory, and then, on the new property, to build some reasonably-priced housing for our young people so they can raise their families there,” Harriet responded. “We even hired an architect to draw up the plans. We want Port St. Francis to remain a vital place, where folks can walk or bike to everything they need—shops, post office, dentists—instead of having to drive miles and miles to other towns just to mail a letter or see a doctor!”

She paused for breath, then continued. “We’ve got it all worked out. It would all be a very ‘green’ use of energy, while still making everything cheerful, homey, and beautifully appealing to the eye, to raise the spirits and well-being of the folks who live there. This, we hope, will help Port St. Francis become a new, really selfsustaining eco-village, one that works
with
the environment, not
against
it.”

“Ohh!” I said. “An eco-village! Like the Prince’s trust, right?”

Now it was all beginning to make sense. I’d been reading about how Prince Charles had, for many years, devoted himself to advocating and assisting in the planning of such eco-villages, and to organic and sustainable farming. At first, the usual naysayers had hooted and jeered and called their prince a “tree-hugger” who ought to mind his own business and just hang around Buckingham Palace, doing only ceremonial things, like pinning medals on heroes and shaking hands with foreign visitors. But over time, even the most cynical Brit admits that the Prince’s vision has become a vital step forward to insure the survival of future generations.

“But I don’t understand,” I said. “Your plan sounds wonderful, and you even have the support of Prince Charles. So, what’s the problem?”

Colin leaned forward with a fierce look in his eyes. “Because whenever you get a good idea started, the big-boy bastards from the City wake up and smell the money,” he exclaimed, unable to control his fury any longer. “Some hotshot international real-estate developers have blown into our town with plans of their own. They
say
they want to do the same thing as Mum—create what
they
call an ‘eco-bos’—”

At my blank look, Harriet translated for me. “
Bos
is Cornish for ‘home’, basically,” she explained.

“Yeah, well,” Colin said, “these jackals want to grab the whole caboodle: your gran’s house, and all the land Mum’s group acquired, and even some other nearby property as well! In a way, Mum’s Legacy Society laid out the bait—by attaching your grand-mum’s house to all that surrounding land—so it’s now a big, juicy, tempting parcel for these vultures.”

Harriet gave her son a reproachful look, then turned to me. “Our
friend
has helped as much as he can, but you might say we’re not the only worthy cause on his dance card,” she said, alluding to H.R.H. “You see, part of the problem is that your Grandmother Beryl’s house is falling into disrepair,” she added with a regretful tone. “You must believe me when I tell you that we really tried to keep it up, but there never seemed to be enough funds, and finally the place was no longer up to code for our group to safely use for our offices and meetings. So the town has put us on notice that they can’t afford to keep the house, and they say they must sell it to the highest bidder.”

“Which is a total black-hearted lie,” Colin interjected heatedly. “The Legacy Society was
forced
to abandon the house,” he explained, still looking outraged. “It’s all politics. See, years ago, when your grandmother was dealing with the town officials, they were all like-minded folk. But a lot of them got old and died off.”

“I’m afraid that’s true,” Harriet admitted, looking less cheerful for the first time.

“Now we’ve got some flash new politicians from the City who have ‘retired to the country’ but they still want to wheel and deal and keep making piles of money,” Colin said bitterly. “The rest of the town council is either too corrupt or just too lily-livered. You should have seen the First Minister, and some of the town officials, lapping it up when the big-money developers showed up to wine and dine them and ferry them about in a limousine. Amazing how little it takes for a politician to sell his own ass—”

“Soul,” Harriet corrected quickly. “Sell his soul to the devil.”

“Well, once those fools on the town council got a whiff of the big money, they saw that their main obstacle was Mum’s group and their option-to-buy,” Colin went on. “So, next thing you know, the Legacy Society gets a little visit from the building inspector, who tells them that the chimney isn’t up to code; or there’s termite damage somewhere, or an electric whatsis is a hazard that has to be fixed immediately. Every week, somebody new showed up, looking for another infraction, no matter how minor, as an excuse to bleed the group dry of all their funds. What the officials couldn’t find wrong they made up, and it cost big legal fees to fight; so even when you win the case, you lose the war. And finally the town got what it wanted—they forced Mum’s group out and declared the house uninhabitable.”

“It became a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Harriet said sadly. “The house has now lain empty for years, so naturally it’s at the mercy of the elements, and we have no more money to fight it. Our option expires at the end of the summer.”

Colin had fallen uncharacteristically silent now. The fire in the fireplace sizzled with what sounded to me like moral indignation.

When Jeremy finally spoke, he did so gently but directly. “Would it really be so bad if the big shots got their way? Wouldn’t it at least stimulate the local economy and provide jobs?”

“Pah!” Colin said scornfully. “They plan to bring in cheap immigrant labor to build it all. You want to see what the developers have
really
got in mind?” he asked cunningly.

Harriet covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Colin,” she said, “some day I fear you’re going to get yourself into real trouble.”

Defiantly, Colin looked Jeremy in the eye and said, “This is all confidential, right?”

Jeremy nodded. Colin nudged his mum, who reached into her bag and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers, which Colin triumphantly plunked on the table before us.

I peered at them curiously. The plans were printed on a thin, parchment-like paper, and when unfolded, they took up most of the table.

“Exhibit A,” Colin said, stabbing at the architectural sketch laid out with a map of the area. “Mum’s original plan. Here’s your grand-mum’s house, which they’d use as an historical inn, with offices for the Legacy Society. On the adjoining new property, working with ecological surveys, the Society would build a few housing clusters right here. All the rest remains public and protected land.”

Colin now unfolded a second set of plans, printed on a sheet of translucent paper, and he laid it on top, so that we could see through it to Harriet’s plans below, and observe where the differences were.

“Exhibit B,” Colin announced. “The plans the developers submitted to the town. Note that Beryl’s house gets replaced with a modern, five-hundred-room hotel and conference center including a time-share hunting lodge, and a spa development. Surrounded by a golf course. No conservation area.”

“Well, at least it’s got a park of some sort, designated as public space, albeit not much,” Jeremy pointed out.

“Yeah, right,” Colin snorted. “Which brings me to Exhibit C.” Now he unfolded another layer and put it atop the others. “Here are the actual, current plans the developer has in mind. Got it right off their computers. Doesn’t quite match up with what they’re telling the town they’ll do, does it?”

Jeremy leaned forward and stared intently. “Did you actually hack into the computer of the development team?” he asked, fascinated.

Colin’s freckled nose quivered as he looked up defiantly. “Let’s just say providence threw it into my lap, and leave it at that,” he replied. He tapped the page. “Now suddenly the developers’ monster spa-hotel-plus-convention-center-from-hell has been expanded even more, to eight hundred rooms. Not only that, they also plan to build time-share condos with another one hundred fifty units. There isn’t a single condo here that will cost under ten million pounds. And instead of a conservation area, these guys are going to stock fancy hunting grounds with wild boar and deer and birds who will be trapped there, surrounded by electric fencing, like ducks in a shooting gallery.”

He moved his fist to another spot and banged it down. “Over here’s a heliport! And in the cove, they’ll build a marina for all their big yachts. On the remaining scrap of property—where the so-called public park was supposed to go—they’ve now got a mall with a private bank, shops, medical group and four restaurants. It’s like they’re building their own private town. So, nobody’s gonna saunter into Port St. Francis and support our local shops or our hospital anymore!”

Colin traced another area with his forefinger. “Look at what kind of water wells and sewage this place will need. And take a glance at the security headquarters they have in mind to guard all the entrances. So,” he concluded, “what kind of homesteaders do you think will pay this kind of big bucks for bulletproof windows, and basically their own police force to guard them? High-end foreign criminals, that’s who. They come out here to play English country squire for the weekend.”

“You’re going up against the Mosley-Clint Group?” Jeremy interrupted, having spotted the developers’ name on the document. When Colin nodded, Jeremy whistled. “I’ve heard about those guys. The Mosley brothers play nothing but hardball, and they have a rep for being just a shade away from gangsters.”

“Not exactly a fair fight, is it?” Colin said dryly.

By now my breath was coming out in short, indignant huffs and puffs as I grew progressively horrified by everything I was hearing. I knew, of course, that the English countryside had been in a state of siege all these years. But somehow I always thought of Grandma’s town as a safe, magical place, like Brigadoon. I realized that this was my wake-up call, and I could hear the urgent countdown to do something about it, as surely as I could hear the clock ticking on the fireplace mantel in this room.